


Conviction

by cuneifire (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 01:29:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19983808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: Romano has faith.





	Conviction

**Author's Note:**

> idk what im doing either.

Conviction

.

Romano has faith.

.

He’s got a cross in one hand and his own blood in the other. A baptism.

His eyes are burning all the way through, to the point where everything is beginning to appear a different shade of red.

It’s that type of night, he supposes. The ones where the stars aren’t watching, where God’s turned an eye. For the time being.

He doesn’t mind these nights, so much.

Romano doesn’t like to doubt his religion. Sometimes he feels like it’s the only thing holding him together; the if he stopped wearing his cross and missed mass just once he’d become nothing more than a string puppet, a toy of Veneziano’s to tug around to his pleasure, a forgotten memory in Spain’s closet.

His religion has seen him through more than any person; why should he trust people, anyways? All they’ve done is betray and ignore him.

He hears doubts though, sometimes; when Veneziano will crush him in a hug so tight he can’t breathe, and he almost could say he loves his little brother back. Or when the old lady down the street insists on giving him her honey for free, even when he offers her money, she’ll just shake her head and tell him if he really wants to pay her he’ll keep his faith, young people these days just don’t believe like they used to. And Romano’s far from pious, but he does his best to keep his promises.

Or when those thoughts had come out once, spilled out from his mouth like liquor in front of Spain of all people. He’d been drunk, and he’d missed half the words he said, but he hadn’t missed Spain (he never missed Spain), hadn’t missed the way he bit his lip in a frown for once, how his eyes were coloured something other than bright and beautiful for once, how he’d leaned just a bit to close and caught Romano’s hand in his, said something that Romano could barely process, inebriated and wine drunk (drunk off life, drunk off Spain but he’d never, never say that) though he was.

But he thinks it was important, because the next time he’d seen Spain the bastard had spent the whole time with this forlorn look in his eyes, and when he’d finally given Romano a hug (rib crushing, like Veneziano, but stealing his breath in a way that he almost liked), he hadn’t just ended it there, no, he’d pulled back and grabbed Romano by the shoulders, stared him straight in the eyes until Romano’s skin was itching and his heart was pounding and all he really wanted was for Spain to _get off of him_ but Spain hadn’t done that, no, he’d leaned closer.

“You say it was religion that got you through,” he’d said, voice kind- sugary sick like those stupid candies Veneziano loved but Romano hated.

“But I don’t think it was your religion, Romano.” Spain smiled, not his usual smile. Different. Less fake, still kind, honest. He wasn’t hiding something, he was telling the truth, which was odd, because Spain was a pathological liar.

(Romano categorises Spain’s smiles, but he’ll never tell anyone that)

Spain still looking at him like God himself has touched this holy earth, like Romano is something to be worshipped.

“I think it was you.” 

And then he’d stepped back and Romano had walked off in a shell shocked stupor and never brought it up again.

But here, he did.

There were a lot of things Romano didn’t think about. The idea that he’d persevered not because of his religion, but because of himself- that was one of them. He hadn’t even contemplated the concept before Spain brought it up.

But here he was, bloody cross and sinful love and a thought that broke him cleanly in half to merely think about, sea washing up on the shore in white bubbled waves.

For this once, he let himself wonder.

He let himself breath, tilted is head against the sand and raised his cross to the sky, parallel to the blood dripping off his hand.

He remembers.

He thinks.

And when morning comes, he’ll have faith again.

Because that is who he is, and unlike the rest of the world, Romano doesn’t change.

Much.


End file.
